|
Thursday, June 01, 2006 The Gratefully Dead I had a brief discussion with a friend on whether or not this was poetry. To end it, I put it in paragraph form. I guess it's prose. This is dedicated to Mary. The Gratefully Dead Their daughter of 24 – or was it 25? – decided that was enough, so it would seem, and took her life into her hands. The sky in her neighborhood would go days without cloud cover, the sun acting like a child starved for entertainment, “Just five more minutes!” Although we east coasters see the same bright sun, our view is scuttled by sky-high flotsam and jetsam. She had sunny days to spend pondering. So she told one friend one thing and another friend a separate thing, leaving the most bodacious piece for herself, not that we’ll ever know the specifics. Isn’t that the irony? We ask the suicidal to talk about it, as if those wishing to kill themselves feel they have time to chat. What the fuck are we thinking? And in the afterlife, how would they decorate? The genially departed, the gratefully dead. Overjoyed to be cut loose, do they fill their space with merry knickknacks and comfortable chairs? Painting the walls soft pastels to match the curtains waving gently to the sunlight meandering in through half open windows. Or, dreadfully, has nothing changed? Is the something they wished so deeply to rid themselves of so hidden within their recesses even death can’t cut it out? Makes you wonder; do they keep killing themselves searching for the right exit wound? posted by ezruh sellof at 5:16 AM 0 comments |
| say word |
musically inclined |
words words
words |
cartoons |
bando macho |
on the record: Free Site Counter |
Post a Comment